Toy Soldier
by Ada Kensington
Summary: During the Great Shinobi War, an eleven year old genin from Amegakure meets the eleven year old Orochimaru in battle. Warning: possibly quite disturbing.


Toy Soldier

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AN: This might be quite disturbing. I'm not sure, since I have a high threshold for it, but just in case, I'll warn you here before you read on. :)

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It was a beautiful, clear day; the sun shining high in the sky as a pleasant breeze rustled the treetops.

Below, on the forest floor, young Hisao ran for his life as his jounin sensei was finally cut down after a long chase by three pursuing Konoha nin. Hisao saw it happen out of the corner of his eye; fire to distract while another slips behind, unseen, to slit his sensei's throat. He heard it too; a soft, insidious, metallic slice, a sound that made his skin crawl as metal met flesh – then followed an ugly, desperate gurgling as his sensei collapsed, gasping for breath. His heart torn, Hisao would have cried out, had he not been so afraid the Konoha nin would hear him and slit his throat too.

He had been lucky. When his sensei heard them coming, he had ordered Hisao to run, run as fast as his legs could carry him, with stealth, and with caution. He did not have to tell Hisao twice. On this day of bloodshed, they had already lost two members of their team, two genin from the Hidden Rain, just like Hisao. They had been his best friends, and were the same age, eleven years old. Both had died when they triggered a trap set by Konoha. A rainstorm of kunai thundered through the air and into the ground, taking his friends with them, their broken bodies lying pinned to the soft earth beneath them, staining it red with blood that ran from too, too many wounds.

Hisao knew he was weeping. Tears, after all, were streaming from his eyes, borne briefly aloft in the wind of his wake as he ran with all his might. But he could not feel pain, could not feel the pain he knew he should feel. All he knew for certain was that his sensei, his team mates, were dead and that he was alone in enemy territory - that he would have to fight to survive and that meant every part of him that existed would have to strive for life.

So Hisao pushed thoughts of his comrades to the back of his mind and concentrated on living. He knew, as a genin, that he was no match for the majority of the pursuing Konoha nin. They were chuunin at best – at worst, elite jounin, like the one with the spiky brown hair and short beard who had killed his sensei. That meant his only options left were stealth and concealment.

For what felt like an eternity spent in a hellish, rushing nightmare, Hisao ducked, dived and scurried in the undergrowth, as blood rained down on him from above – ninja from various villages having been dispatched by opponents as they leapt from branch to branch. Once, he was almost crushed by the corpse of a Konoha nin, fallen out of the treetops, already dead when he hit the ground but inches away. Hisao had to bite back a scream when he saw the dead man's face, warped beyond repair from a ferocious fire jutsu, skin crackled black and tendons split, his face contorted in agony and his blank eyes staring…

He was almost grateful when he came across the river. Fording it – a dangerous but necessary task if he wanted to get out alive – gave him a chance to wash himself clean of the blood that had begun to soak through his clothes and dry to a dusty film on his skin and hair. As a genin from Hidden Rain, he was in his element, and was able to hug the river bed as he swam across, remaining undetected while the unceasing slaughter reached its peak on the other side of the trees, just behind him. Had he been caught in that skirmish, he would have almost certainly perished.

Instead, he lived, and in moments, Hisao was up, out of the river, and scurrying once again through the undergrowth, dodging errant kunai and staying stock still while groups of fully-grown men and women raced past him, mercifully unaware of his presence, though ever preying upon his mind was the thought that his hammering heart would give him away in the end.

It was not long before he came across the boy. Hisano spotted him immediately, having hidden himself in the low branches of a tree at the edge of the clearing. The sight that met his eyes there chilled him to the bone, and he had to fight to repress a strong wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.

The boy was small, slight – around his age, he knew – with long black hair that fell past his shoulders. He wore no headband to mark his allegiance, but Hisano knew he was from Konoha, for had he hailed from Amegakure, he would have recalled him immediately from his academy days. The boy wore a white kimono, which was no longer white – spattered by blood and gore which had bled into the silk, forming blotchy flowers of red upon its fluid surface. The boy was also surrounded by corpses – eviscerated, burned, decapitated, beaten bloody, warm and still twitching – as he knelt upon the chest of a dead man, peering deep into his unseeing eyes.

A slow, creeping feeling of dread stole over Hisano, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His mind was screaming at him to run, for there was something very, very wrong with the boy.

He was just about to make a break for it, when the boy's head suddenly turned and looked straight at the spot where he was hiding. Hisano froze, his heart thumping with terror. He couldn't have seen him – couldn't have possibly! He hadn't made a sound!

But the boy spoke, his voice reaching out and touching him through the branches of the trees.

"Who are you, and where are you from?"

The boy's measured, thoughtful tones made Hisano shiver, and he did not answer.

"I know you're there," the boy called out, as he rose to his feet, treading over the corpse of the fallen Rain nin he had been peering at, treading upon others too as he walked in a straight line towards Hisano's hiding place with a disregard for the dead that filled Hisano with horror and disgust.

There was something wrong with this boy. Something very, very wrong…

And he was there. Below him. Staring up at his feet from the roots of the tree. The boy had yellow eyes – glittering yellow eyes like the ancient, creeping beasts of legend that lured men with promises of fame and riches and then devoured them piece by piece in the dark, secret places of the world. The boy had yellow eyes – and they terrified him.

"Come down," the boy said – an order or a request, Hisano couldn't quite tell. When he didn't move, the boy added, "I can as easily reach you up there."

There was nothing for it. His luck had run out and his game of hide-and-seek had come to an end. He would have to fight.

Trembling, Hisano steeled himself and leapt from the low branches of the tree, coming to rest soundlessly upon the soft ground but a foot away from the boy. As he landed, something crunched underfoot, and when he risked a downward glance, he felt a thrill of revulsion as he realised it was the fish-belly white fingers at the tip of a severed arm. This time he _was_ sick, and the strange boy stood a little away, impassive, watching him retch as he vomited hot, acrid bile that stung his lips and made his eyes water. After a moment, the nausea receded, and he lifted his head to face the boy. He tried to wipe his mouth clean with his sleeve, but only succeeded in smearing blood across it.

Hisano stood there, breathing heavily, watching the boy closely for any sign of movement as he had been taught by his sensei.

The boy did not move. Instead, he spoke again.

"Who are you, and where are you from?" he said, tilting his head curiously to one side.

"My name is Hisano," he answered with a vestige of broken pride, holding his head high, "and I am a genin of the Hidden Rain."

"What age are you?"

Such a normal response caught him a little off guard, and Hisano's brow furrowed as he answered, "I-I am eleven years old."

"I am eleven too," the boy said, with a small smile. "I shall be twelve this coming autumn."

There was a short pause as they boy stooped to retrieve a kunai from the ground. It was dripping with blood, and Hisano had to look away when the boy started cleaning it with the hem of his kimono. Then he refocused his attention on Hisano and said, with a chilling indifference, "I killed these men, you know. And that woman too, over there."

Hisano swallowed nervously.

"I've never killed this many people before. Not in a day. It took me longer than I thought it would." The boy walked a few paces away and nudged the corpse of a brown-haired nin with his foot, adding, "This one caused me a lot of trouble. I think the woman was his wife, or maybe his lover, because when I killed her he wasn't very happy. He managed to get behind me and he grabbed me by the neck. See?"

The boy pulled down the collar of his kimono to reveal two ugly red burn marks round the circumference of his neck. Hisano saw that the boy's skin was as pale as that of the cold cadaver at his feet. He shivered, and wondered if the boy was real and not a figment of his imagination. The adults told tales of those who went mad in battle, those who could not face the bloody reality of war. Maybe that's what had happened to him? Maybe this wasn't real at all. What if he was imagining it?

"He tried to throttle me," the boy went on, looking down at the body almost accusingly. "But I gouged his eyes out with my fingers. I threw them over there, by that tree. He wasn't much of a challenge after that. I only needed a kunai…"

The boy trailed off and fixed Hisano with an appraising look, up and down, that made his skin crawl. Then he said, quite matter-of-factly, "I'm going to have to kill you now."

A cold fear clutched at Hisano's heart. Somehow, he knew this moment was coming ever since he arrived. His mind began to work furiously, desperately. He might not be able to match the boy in battle, but he could run – he could run, he knew that. If he ran, then there would be a chance, a chance that he could make it out alive. Yes, he decided. When the opportunity arose, he would make a break for it – and it could be done, for the boy was still talking, moving towards him as he idly weaved the kunai between his pale fingers.

"You see, I want to know what it's like," the boy went on, almost insistent, "what it's like to die, I mean. I tried to watch them, but it was too quick. The lights in their eyes went out before I could discover where it went. I want to know where all the souls go when people die. I want to know so badly."

So that's what he was doing earlier, Hisano thought. He was looking into the dead man's eyes for… his soul?

Hisano was certain now. This boy was not human – he was a demon.

"You see, that's where you come in," the boy said, with a chilling smile. "I'm glad you stumbled across this place, Hisano, because you're just what I need. I won't have to worry about dodging or technique or anything silly like that. I'll be able to take my time with you and watch the light fade from your eyes. Maybe, I'll even get to see your soul—"

Unable to stand it any longer, Hisano turned and fled, overcome by terror. He'd never run so fast in his life. He ran and ran and ran until his lungs were burning, until he felt every laboured breath a stabbing pain. But that didn't matter. It didn't matter if he collapsed and died from exhaustion when he reached base. It didn't matter if he was arrested and sentenced to death in a Konoha court. It didn't even matter if another Konoha nin picked him off along the way – with a kunai to the throat, just like his sensei. All that mattered was that he did not want to die at the hand of the demon boy.

Thoughts of the boy kneeling atop his corpse like a vulture, staring at him with his unnatural, yellow eyes, searching for his soul, almost pushed Hisano over the edge and into hysteria.

He did scream, hysterically, when the kunai came at him, flying through the air – pinning him fast to a tree trunk. The boy jumped down from above, landing gracefully and silently. Hisano was shaking, and he felt as though he would faint from fear. Slowly, casually, the boy approached him, still weaving the single kunai between his fingers, and with each step the boy took, Hisano felt like he was going to faint. Desperately, he hoped he _would_ faint. He dearly wished to be unconscious when the boy began to do whatever it was he was planning to do with him.

The adults used to tell tales of torture. Of unfortunate comrades caught behind enemy lines. The enemy would take them, imprison them, and subject them to the vilest torments – needles, racks, vices, beatings – usually to gain information. Sometimes, having screamed out their secrets in agony, the unfortunate comrades would be released without charge and would return, shamed at their betrayal and changed beyond reckoning.

This boy was different, however, and when he looked into his glittering, yellow eyes, he knew that he was going to die – slowly and painfully. He started to cry.

"You can scream if you like," the boy said quietly, smiling slightly as Hisano felt him press the edge of the kunai into his throat. "But I am fairly certain no one will rescue you. It's doubtful they'll even care, anyway, for there is a battle being fought just over the river and they'll all be too concerned with saving their own skins."

The boy lowered the kunai, and with a sickening lurch, Hisano heard the sound of fabric tearing and then felt the cool, summer's breeze against his bare skin. Then the boy placed the point of the blade at his breast bone, applying a little pressure so it drew a small bead of blood. Weeping, Hisano screwed his eyes shut. If he was going to die, he did not want the last thing he saw to be the boy's eyes, glittering in fascination as they stared into his own, watching as life left them, spent in agony.

"It's okay," the boy said, with a hint of amusement. "You can close them right now. I guarantee you'll open them again before the end."

Then he leaned in, so close Hisano could feel his breath against his skin, so close he could smell the smell of death on him, and said, "My name is Orochimaru. I thought you would like to know that before you die…"

*********

This morning's battle had been the bloodiest Hiruzen Sarutobi could remember in all his days of service under the mantle of Konohagakure. It had also been the most terrifying, for he had lost one of his young genin while his attention had been focused on the dispatch of a particularly troublesome Rain jounin. He did not know how Orochimaru had managed to slip away, but he had spent the rest of the battle fighting his way through the forest, killing all enemies who stood in his way in order to find his beloved, most favourite student.

Sarutobi eventually found him at the river's edge, kneeling by the bank, washing his face and hands. The boy had been covered in blood – his kimono, once shining white, was saturated with the stuff, and it had begun to congeal on his hair, which hung heavy and limp. He was so relieved to find his young student alive that he dove into the river and swam across as fast as he was able.

He had been worried that the day's events might have disturbed the boy, for Orochimaru was a quiet, thoughtful, little soul, but he seemed to Sarutobi to be perfectly composed, though his hands were trembling ever-so-slightly and he seemed to be suffering a little from over-exertion. Either way, he seemed quite happy to see his sensei, and let Sarutobi carry him back in his arms to the hospital, where he was reunited with his team mates, Jiraiya and Tsunade, who had fought well and had sustained only minor, superficial injuries.

Having found Orochimaru, he was immediately summoned by the Second, who ordered him to form a team to inspect the battlefield. His tasks were to check for Leaf survivors, to bring back Rain survivors with a view to interrogation, and to assess the scale of loss. With a heavy heart, he accepted. Today, the Leaf had lost many good nin, but that was nothing, he knew, compared with Rain. Leaf had fought ferociously, and the battle was on their territory – Rain did not have a hope of prevailing.

Within the hour, Sarutobi had formed his team, and they scoured every inch of the forest. Survivors were found, on both sides, and they were transported back to the hospital for treatment, into already overcrowded wards where overburdened medics were forced to distinguish between those they could save and those they could not. After that, he made a sweep of the area, counting the bodies. There was one particular area that disturbed him greatly.

In a patch of trees between the river and a clearing where the forest opened up to the sky, Sarutobi saw a sight that made his blood run cold. A young boy from the Hidden Rain – around the age of his own students – pinned to a tree with thirty firmly-placed kunai. His killer had stripped him to the waist, had cut him open, and had hacked open his ribcage. It must have taken a long time. The boy's guts were hanging out, rubbery and soft, spilling over the great, gaping hole carved out by the one who killed him, and his young face was grey and slack – probably spent, having endured hours of torture. The worst part, though, was his eyes. It was always the eyes, and he knew that this boy's eyes had seen something truly horrific – of which even Sarutobi, an experienced soldier, could only begin to imagine.

It was only a glance, but Sarutobi felt sick – sick to his stomach – and he had to look away. He could not face anymore today. He didn't think he could face any more war. Perhaps not ever. Feeling suddenly weak, he let his head fall into his hands, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

He was a boy… just a boy – like Orochimaru, like Jiraiya – and his life had been ended so brutally, so cruelly, by the hands of a Konoha nin no less. The Leaf, who advocated peace and equality. The Leaf, who preached justice for all. What about peace for this boy? What about justice? Who would avenge him? It was times like these that Sarutobi wondered whether the ends truly justified the means – times like these when he would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat as visions of all the children, dead from needless war, rose to greet him in his nightmares.

It was times like these when he wished it would all just stop.

More than anything, he feared for the children. They would grow up bearing the scars of war, and if they were not protected, they would become twisted by them.

He couldn't protect the boy - the poor, poor boy from Amegakure. Maybe he couldn't even protect the other children of his own village. But Orochimaru, Jiraiya, Tsunade - his students, his charges, in whom lived all his joys and sorrows and hopes and fears – no matter what, he would protect them.

Orochimaru, Jiraiya, Tsunade...

He would protect them.


End file.
